


basic instinct

by yosoyritmo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Addiction, my mother read it and it made her cry, tfw ur tags are longer than the actual fic, this is all hurt and almost no comfort and im not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosoyritmo/pseuds/yosoyritmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen isn't entirely healed, even when things have stabilised in Thedas.</p>
<p>[Post-Inquisition. Events are set in Adamant.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	basic instinct

**Author's Note:**

> so if i remember correctly i first posted this at the end of 2015... that's crazy to think about. this was originally written as a coursework piece for school, i was given the prompt "ends with the words, 'how wrong he was.'" i needed to throw together a portfolio of my best stuff for university, so i figured i'd revisit this and switch out the names to use it for that. thought i might as well touch up this version while i was at it! i've corrected errors and improved the overall cohesion, so hopefully this is up to an acceptable standard lmao. as always, kudos, comments and criticism feed the man. much love

Shaking hands and an erratic heart wrack a slumping body against the wall of a building crumbling after being taught an ugly lesson of war. Coughs forced from weeping lungs blow dust from clenched fists, nails breaking the skin on dirty palms, marking his flesh with white crescent moons ringed with red. A slow breath -  _inhale, exhale_  - steadies the drum of thrumming muscles under skin twitching with anticipation. The stink of carrion weighs down the air, stinging a nose red with the chill in the evening air. Inhale, exhale.

The sounds of battle reverberate around him; shouts of agony and taunting cries pull him out of his reverie. Cullen rises, knees almost buckling as his eyesight fails him and the blur of bodies at his feet - both allies and enemies alike - filters in and out of visibility. A trebuchet thrusts rock and fire into the air and one hand instinctively snaps to the bloodied hilt at his side. Another shrill cry brings this soldier back to himself, drawing his sword and marching to find something to fight, as his mind suddenly floods with reasons to fight for.

War is easy. Familiar. He may not enjoy it, but it is a distraction; it is preferable to being caught up in thought, turning false encouragements and images of friends, brothers he could have saved over and over in his mind, the persistent headache that worries behind his eyes as a constant reminder that his body still wants to join to something bigger than himself; needs it. Months have passed since he last gave in to the pull of the sickly blue power within its delicate vials - yet still its burning song resonates, magisterial beneath his skull and still somehow surrounding him. A rough hand rubs at the beginnings of stubble, following the line of his jaw with blunt fingernails. He swallows, not that it does much to rid the growing lump in his throat, and reaches up to brush unruly curls away from his forehead, sticky with sweat and Lord knows what else.

Walking in no clear direction, his breathing becomes laboured as tremors take over again. He tightens his grip on his sword, blinking hard for a few seconds that feel like hours as he tries to focus his eyes, finding the flow of battle. Green flashes in the distance - well, it was likely only on the other side of the fortress, but the disorientation that comes with stress and withdrawals makes everything seem so far away - and he can feel eyes on him, piercing, as a figure raises a hand crackling with power little understood, then falls. Just as worry begins to set in, for a moment he swears that he sees himself; younger, and with a sense of naivety he can almost place deep in his mind, but...

_No. No no no no no_. Iron clatters on ancient stone as reality collapses. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, making the pounding in his head stomp louder and louder and louder until it's all he hears and his whole body trembles. He can feel, hear his veins pulsing against his skin and all he wants is to run, run until he can't think any more, run out of whatever hell he is stuck in, run to the first empty place he could reach. His vision blurs with each thump in his head, and he doesn't remember moving yet he finds himself on the battlements, only a few paces from the edge where the wall has crumbled, dust tumbling down where the floor is slowly losing its grip on itself, rocks scraping together as they tumble but making no sound of landing.

He doesn't look down, he can allow himself that much, but his knees jolt as a rumble shakes the loose stone under his feet and he backs up. Or, he thinks he does but at this point he is unable to discern whether he's upright, sideways or even still on solid ground. But he keeps moving, breaths coming sharp and difficult as his body tries to deal with the immediate danger while his mind chases itself around in circles, another place entirely.

When his back meets with a surface that actually feels steady, he assumes that it's a wall and parts his lips to draw in a long, shaky breath, but then there's a hand winding around his torso and another gripping his chin and a beast by the name of Panic forces his muscles into paralysis. His knees give way and then everything is white as all sensation cuts out and reality pushes its way in.

 

* * *

 

He's sitting upright when feeling returns to him, legs numb and tingling crossed awkwardly beneath him. There's an arm around his shoulders, thumb rubbing in small, slow circles while the other hand rests lightly on his knee, the touch almost too light to feel, so feather-light as though the slightest pressure would break him. A voice he begins to recognise as his senses adjust to the waking world speaks to him in hushed tones. He finds a familiarity in the gentle cadence of the words.

_Ah... Dorian._

He is still too far away to make sense of what is being spoken to him, but near enough to appreciate that they help to soothe him, a reminder than he is real - _real, real, real_ \- and he's going to be okay. He will. Not completely, perhaps never completely, and certainly not any time soon, but it will happen.

Wincing as he stretches his legs out from underneath him, Cullen lets his head fall onto the shoulder next to him, and exhales as the hand on his own moves up to card fingers through his hair. He feels Dorian rest his cheek on top of his head, occasionally turning to plant soft kisses there. Cullen relishes the feeling and in that moment, he has the courage to tell himself that what he did was for the better, and though he was too slow to realise that what Meredith was doing was wrong, though he'd always blame the part of himself that let those hundreds of innocent people die thanks to the Knight-Commander's madness and his own ignorance, he'd risen up against the chaos in the end; he had helped. He was safe and a better person and happier than he'd been since his recruitment into the movement that had saved his life. He was better, could be better still and for the first time in too many years to count, perhaps in his whole  _life_ , he could tell that part of him who still wished for those days of darkness how wrong he was.


End file.
